Could James’ faith heal Ruth? Could it restore her own faith? For that was his deepest prayer.
She had returned to Mussoorie. And not just at the eleventh hour to say an obligatory good-bye, but with a few months to spare. Knowing that she was not, in any technical sense, needed, she had still come. In that decision James had felt more hope than anything he’d seen in the past twenty-four years. But how battered that hope was now. How faint. Just enough to ask for this visit to the school. It might open a door, help him to speak, or her to speak. But how tied their tongues, and how poor.
They moved on down the big hallway. Most of the doors were closed, breathing out the thick hush of busy classrooms: pages turning, pens scratching, murmured discussions, teachers’ voices lifted above the hum. But the door to the bio lab stood open and they slipped inside; it was gleaming, all white and stainless steel. Gone were the ancient wooden worktops carved with initials, the cracked ceramic sinks, the crowded shelves.
‘Shit!’ Ruth said. James winced. ‘Where is everything?’ There were no specimens in formaldehyde, no cases of beetles, no moulting silver-black kalij pheasant.
‘There was a fire.’
‘But your collections?’ He had donated his butterflies, too, his pressed wildflowers, his ferns.
‘Everything destroyed.’
‘Oh my god… that’s terrible.’
‘Worse things happen.’
‘I know but….’ A hand moved to her stomach. ‘All your precious things.’
There was silence. He looked away. When he had left his collections at the school in the December of 1947, it was a mere speck of dust in the landslide of loss. The nation’s. His own. He wanted to tell her that story, but couldn’t begin.
At the bottom of the stairs, they studied the notice boards that ran the length of the main corridor. A large chart set out the fixtures for the Table Tennis tournament and there was a sign-up sheet for a shopping trip to Delhi, which was full, and another for cleaning the servants’ quarters, which had two names. Ruth ran her eye down the list for the Honour Roll.
‘Look at those,’ she murmured.
‘What?’ James leaned in.
‘The beautiful names.’ Her finger slipped down the sheet. ‘Sasafras Irani, Rolf Pleitgen, Wungram Shishak, Eldred Zachariah, Madoka Kumashiro, Jemima Rastogi, LeLe Aung, Cleopatra Matovu, Tensing Wangyal, Ambareen Sahoo, Meghal Jatakia, Delilah Rabbany, Song Han Lee.’
James nodded. ‘Not many places in the world you get names like that side-by-side in class, eating together, sharing dorms.’
Sharing pain, Ruth thought. Swilling around together in the Melting Pot, the Fruit Salad, the Jungle.
She pointed to a poster about a series of films celebrating Independence. Freedom: Captured on Film.
‘Looks interesting,’ she said. ‘Have you gone to any of those?’
‘No,’ said James, rubbing his ear. ‘I’m not into movies.’
‘I know, but I thought you might be interested, having witnessed it all.’
James dug into his trouser pocket and drew out a crumpled hanky. He blew his nose and stuffed it back.
‘No.’
She snorted softly. He had never told any of his partition stories. Always got edgy, changed the subject or simply wouldn’t speak. After years of turning her back on India, she now wanted to know it again, to understand.
There was a loud ringing just above their heads and the thunder of chairs and desks pushed back, a gathering storm of feet. Doors were yanked open and students poured out, rivers of them spilling along hallways, up and down stairs, around corners.
They were mainly Asian, with black and brown hair and skins in every tone from the chocolate of south India to the jasmine of Korea. Here and there was an African face, or a European, a blonde head, a flash of ginger. Some had arms looped casually around each other, a group were laughing, one boy sang.
Beautiful faces with beautiful names.
It did not look like a jungle, or pain.
The bell overhead rang again and the last trickle of students slithered into classrooms as doors closed.
‘There are hardly any westerners now,’ she said.
‘No, not so many western missionaries in South Asia.’
‘I see.’ Thank god, she thought.
‘In my time,’ he said, ‘it was nearly all white kids. Mainly American missionaries, a few from other places and just a handful of Indians, like Paul Verghese.’
‘So, the missionary era’s kind of over then, is it?’
‘Oh no. Plenty of these are mish kids, but their parents are Asian.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. There are more missionaries in the world now than ever before, but you wouldn’t recognise them.’
‘Dear me,’ she muttered. ‘That’s a bit frightening.’ She had long ago signed up to the popular charges against the missionary endeavour: missionaries destroyed cultures, imposed western beliefs on the rest of the world, exploited poverty to further their spiritual ends. This swelling of the ranks by Asian Christians was unsettling.
In the Quad they wove their way through the games of tag and skipping to the stairs in the corner. James made slow progress, gripping the banister and breathing hard, a small thread of spit swinging from his mouth. Ruth wiped it with a tissue, realising it was the first gesture of physical care she had given to either of her parents.
At the top of the stairs they stepped into Lower Dorm, except it was no longer a dorm. In place of the cupboards and bunks and cold concrete, a sprung wooden floor gleamed in the sunlight. Where Kozy Korner had been was now a thick red rug bearing a harmonium, a pair of tabla and a sitar.
‘Indian dance studio,’ James said.
The door to Miss Joshi’s apartment opened and a young woman in jeans and bare feet walked through. Her face, framed by a short pixie cut, was open and lovely, a tiny diamond glittering in her nose.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’ Then she frowned. ‘Ruthie Connor?! Is it you?’ She skipped across the room and clasped her hands. ‘I’m Neetu! Neetu Banwarilal, remember?’
With peels of laughter, she embraced Ruth and told how she’d followed her mother’s footsteps, but how Mrs Banwarilal had died two years before.
‘She was still choreographing to the end. Her last project was with Kashi Narayan – remember him? Iqbal was singing in it too, and lots of kids dancing. All about creation. Such a wonderful thing!’
‘Sounds it.’
‘But what do you think of this place?’ Neetu waved her delicate hand across the studio.
‘Incredible. Such a change from Lower Dorm.’
‘Yeah? I was never in boarding. What was it like?’
‘Depends who you ask,’ said Ruth. ‘I hated it.’
James shifted on his stick.
‘Oh,’ Neetu said softly, shooting a look at him. ‘I think it’s a lot better now. The dorms are very bright and homey and the kids are really happy.’
‘How nice for them,’ said Ruth and walked over to one of the windows. It looked out to the eastern ranges that faded to smudges on the horizon. A lammergeyer vulture hung above them, motionless, its wingspan wide on the air. In grade two she had lain on her bunk beside this window and wished she could fly.
The greeting from Neetu was echoed many times by a handful of ageing teachers, grey-haired secretaries and long-serving employees, whose faces lit at the sight of her. She was known, remembered and contrary to her belief, welcomed. Some even said, ‘Welcome home.’ It un-nerved her.
As they walked down the winding path from the school to the residences, a watery sunlight filtered through the trees and the air carried notes of pine and moss. James pointed his stick at a clump of ferns, bedraggled and yellowing.
‘That means monsoon is nearly over,’ he said.
She was silent. There was no sound but their footsteps and the tapping of his stick.
‘You were happy, too, Ruthie,’ he said, at last, so quietly it was almost a wh
isper. ‘Some of the time. You were.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Hannah said so, and your teachers.’
‘They would say that.’
‘But they knew you, they cared about you. Mrs Banwarilal, the Parks, Mr Haskell.’
That last name shot her. She was galled he would cite the very man whose lie had seen her expelled in unbearable distress and – worse – blamed for Manveer’s death. But they had always believed him over her.
She almost spoke but stifled it.
At the boys’ residence they found the young dorm parent up a ladder repairing a basketball net. Winston, from Assam, was proud of his patch and happy to show them around. The whole residence was recently refurbished and the room they entered had new fitted bunks, cheerful curtains and rugs. James smiled as he looked around him.
‘Boy, it sure is different,’ he said shaking his head, one hand resting on his chest.
‘When were you here?’ asked Winston.
‘At Oaklands? Oh, on and off from 1936 till I guess… December 47. Four to sixteen. My folks worked in Bareilly, but they were on the hillside a lot too, so I was out of boarding half the time.’
‘Wow,’ said Winston. ‘Not many kids are here for that long any more. And we don’t take them in boarding till third grade, anyway.’
‘That’s good,’ said James. ‘Four is a little young.’ And he walked to the large window that looked west over the bazaar. Ruth examined the posters of rock stars and motorbikes.
‘What was it like back then?’ asked Winston.
‘Oh, it was good,’ said James. ‘And bad. I was homesick at first. Cried a lot.’ He glanced at Ruth but she did not look back.
‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ said Winston. ‘No luxuries is those days, eh?’
‘No, no, not at all.’ Though it was not the spartan facilities that had caused pain. It was the older boys taunting him for his wonky teeth and his wet bed. Every night they’d stolen his teddy bear and tossed it round the dorm till he was a whirling dervish of fury and snot and tears. Until one of his fists finally hit a nose and there was a jet of blood and a howl. It was a rite of passage and no-one took his teddy bear again. But instead of feeling triumphant he had lain in bed stroking the bear’s ear and wondering what his mother would think.
All he said to Winston was, ‘No, no luxuries. Just one chula in the common room and no heat in the dorms.’
‘Really? These guys all have their own heater.’
‘And we had bucket baths. Showers when you got to senior hostel, but sometimes they were cold.’
‘No!’
He didn’t explain this was for punishment, like when Private Patsy was discovered. Even Ellen never heard about that.
‘Twice a week – Wednesday and Saturday,’ he said.
‘No way. These boys get hot showers every day. They can pick morning, afternoon or evening.’
‘Like a hotel!’
‘Yeah, and they think I’m room service.’
‘What’s the food like now?’ asked James.
‘Well the kids always complain, of course, but I think it’s pretty good. They have a choice – either an Indian meal or something Western.’
‘Do they know how lucky they are?’ asked James.
‘I keep telling them, but maybe we should get you in to do devotions one night, Dr Connor.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Are devotions still compulsory or do the kids get a choice about that too?’ asked Ruth, speaking for the first time.
‘Up to eighth grade they’re still compulsory,’ said Winston.
‘No way. You mean you still make all these Hindu and Muslim and Buddhist kids sit through Christian indoctrination every night? I thought the place had moved on a bit.’
Winston shrugged. ‘It’s still a Christian school. The parents know the deal.’
‘No, they don’t. They think their kids will just have to sit through a few boring talks. What they don’t realise is that an army of evangelical teachers and pupils are on a hunt for their souls.’
James gripped his stick.
‘That’s a little harsh,’ Winston said.
‘You can’t deny it! I remember it well. Feverishly praying for all the non-Christians. “The lost” we called them. Some of the poor bastards were so miserable and homesick they’d come along to any Bible study as long as there was home-baking and a caring Mrs Somebody to talk to. And once you were there you couldn’t withstand the pressure for long. Everybody singing and looking at you meaningfully, raising hands, calling on the love of Jesus. You didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Sounds like you escaped,’ observed Winston.
Her stare was cold.
‘I was thrown out,’ she said.
THIRTY-TWO
It was James who first dropped Ruth off at school. The task fell to him because Ellen couldn’t face it, though the girls never knew. He had brought her and Hannah on the overnight train from Kanpur, then the bus from Dehra Dun and finally the long trudge through the bazaar with a trail of coolies. In Long Dorm he saw their trunks installed in their cubicles and struggled through a polite conversation with Miss Joshi.
At last it was time to go. He nodded dutifully at the chattering dorm mother and, with a hand fumbling the handkerchief in his pocket, turned to look at the girls. They were sitting cross-legged in the Kozy Korner playing dolls with Sita. The new little friend wore her hair in bunches tied with incongruous pink ribbons that matched her frilly dress. Miss Joshi had pointed out her bed right next to Ruth’s. They were both in Grade 1, both six years old, though Sita, having arrived the day before, established her authority on all subjects, including the care of dolls. At that moment she was stripping Ruth’s doll and giving instructions on bathing, while ten-year old Hannah rummaged in a shoebox for its pyjamas. Ruth was rocking Sita’s doll to sleep.
James called them, his voice steady. ‘Hannah, Ruthie. It’s time now.’
Ruth was too busy. ‘Shhh!’ she hissed, pressing a finger against her lips.
Hannah dropped the pyjamas and ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist and pressing her face into his woollen sweater. He patted the top of her head and looked across to Ruth, who was kissing her doll.
‘Dad’s gotta go now, Piyari.’
For a moment she seemed not to have heard, but then suddenly shoved the doll between a pair of cushions and scampered across, throwing her arms around both father and sister. James bent forward and rubbed their backs, smelling the mingling of shampoo and exhaust fumes in their hair. There was a slight ache in his throat. He swallowed and straightened up.
‘Goodbye, my good girls,’ he said, a hand on each shoulder.
‘Where are you going?’ Ruth asked.
The question shocked him. ‘Home. To Mommy.’
She looked puzzled.
‘But aren’t you staying with us?’
‘No. Daddy’s going back to the hospital.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ he stammered, ‘it’s what I do. It’s my work.’
Ruth gazed at him. ‘I want to go, too.’
He couldn’t believe it. They’d been over this so many times. How could she still not understand? Hannah came to his rescue.
‘No, Ruthie. We’re staying here at school and we’ll go home at vacation.’
‘But who’s going to look after us?’ asked Ruth, genuinely baffled.
‘I am!’ fluted Miss Joshi, beaming down at her a little too brightly. ‘We’re going to have a super time!’ Her eyes were ringed with so much kohl they were like twin bruises in her oily face.
Ruth studied her for a moment, then turned back to her father. ‘When’s vacation? Is it the weekend?’
James felt panic rising inside him. Hannah had never been like this. ‘Not the weekend, Piyari, but not too long. Mom’s gonna come up and visit you in a couple months.’
Her face quivered. ‘I want Mommy now.’
‘But Ruthie, Mommy’s not here
—’
‘I want to go home!’ she wailed and hurled herself at James. He felt sweat breaking across his neck and armpits.
‘Oh–ho,’ he murmured huskily, patting her back. ‘Oh-ho now…’
Hannah wrapped herself around Ruth from behind and said shh-shh-shh. Miss Joshi clicked her tongue and, from the other side of the room, Sita stared.
James disentangled himself and pulled a wadded hanky from his pocket.
‘Now, now, that’s enough now,’ he said sternly and dabbed at Ruth’s wet face. ‘You need to be good and make Mom and Dad proud.’ She still shuddered with sobs. ‘Make Jesus proud.’
This brought on a fresh flood of tears.
‘Daddy has to go now or he’ll miss the bus.’ His voice was snappy and he hated it. He gave the hanky to Hannah and put a hand on her smooth, shiny hair, his other on Ruth’s tangle of curls.
‘Remember, girls, the Lord Jesus is always with you.’
He had been meaning to pray over them, but could feel a crack opening up inside him and everything beginning to slide towards it. Quickly he dropped a rough kiss on each face – Hannah’s soft and still, Ruth’s a wet mess – and pulled back before her out-flung arms could catch him.
‘Bye, now!’ he called as he pushed out the door, just aware of Hannah hugging Ruth, and Ruth starting to scream.
He ran down the stairs of Lower Dorm and wanted to keep running for a long time, but his coolie was waiting with his bag in the Quad, and he had to stop and breathe and hide the crack that was widening inside. He rubbed his hand over his chest and gave a small tilt of his head. The coolie tilted in return and stood up, shouldering the bedroll.
They walked out the school gate and down the road, the monsoon mist a cold breath through the trees. The faint sound of bells and clopping hooves grew louder as a party of dudh-wallas appeared, large milk cans clinking on the saddles and a ripe smell of donkey, dung and sour clothes filling the air. James and the coolie walked west towards the bruised sky and the first lights of the bazaar, past the sprawling untidiness of Mullingar, with its lines of washing like seaweed on the hull of a ship, and all the way down to the bus stand at Paramount Picture House. From there, the bus zig-zagged three thousand feet down the mountain, blasting its horn and swaying at every bend, finally disgorging its green-gilled passengers a hundred metres from the railway station. It was night now, and the light bulbs on the road-side stalls glowed under their speckling of grease and dirt.
A House Called Askival Page 21
